Treasure Island

Morgan Michaels


Hercules At The Crossroads ll


Augeries vivid as memories
heaven-set tasks-
what? the conscience asks;
though all a chore, met
the same, all. Responsibilities.
Drops in the wine dropped:
truths without hue,
that take the color of their medium
and guzzled, banish fear and tedium.

And one deserted highway
slung upon another
traffic-less. The path King Oedipus
blindly will tread, seven ages hence:
desert-empty-bare. Monotonous.
Bird-swept, shade-swept, treeless
and where they crossed, two ladies:
one auburn-haired, beckoning and smiling,
shimmered, her silks blown back by the breeze

Holding a wine cup, while
in the dust, a second,
dimly-cowled, sat on the ground
compass in hand, her eye
cast on the pages of a book spread in her lap
thick with maps and burrined lore.
The wind turned the pages.
On she read and read.
My sorry destiny to choose.

So I did...

Submitted: Sunday, August 25, 2013
Edited: Monday, August 26, 2013

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